


The Weasel and The Rat

by purple_bookcover



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Short Metodey, Blood, Hate Fuck, Hate Sex, M/M, Metoday, Self-Harm, the ship name is metacheron because i said so and no one can refute me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22959919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_bookcover/pseuds/purple_bookcover
Summary: In which Metodey does not understand why an experiment that worked on a rat does not also work on him, and Acheron gets horny for a pretty weasel man.
Relationships: Metodey/Acheron
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10





	The Weasel and The Rat

**Author's Note:**

> CW: SELF-HARM. Metodey cuts himself in the interest of science, but NOT in the usual self-harm sorta way. 
> 
> Happy Metoday! I'm going to hell.

The rat squealed as Metodey sliced it open. 

“Shh, shh,” he cooed as it writhed and shrieked. Warm blood oozed out, forming a pool beneath the frantic creature while Metodey held it down. 

Finally, its little legs scrabbled more slowly. It panted, eyes glassy as death stole upon it. 

Metodey released it, setting the knife aside and reaching for a vial. He uncorked the vial with his teeth, hunching over the creature faltering atop the stained wood. Even as Metodey kneeled on the tabletop, even as he crouched over the rat, even as the poor wretch wheezed out the final breaths of its brief life, it watched him warily. As well it should. As well anything living and warm should.

Metodey pried open the cut he'd made on the rat's belly. The thing gave a squeak of renewed agony. Then Metodey tipped the vial. 

It was hard to tell if it worked, hard to see the difference between the rat's blood and the blood from the vial. Crimson mingled among crimson, flowing opposite directions, one spilling out as the other tried to force its way in. Metodey set the empty glass aside and used his fingers to massage the new blood into the wound, like stuffing candied fruit into an unbaked loaf of bread. 

The creature hitched, its eyes flying wide. Its tiny claws scrabbled with renewed vigor. Metodey had to hold it down again as it flailed and whined. A purple glow lit the red gloom of the chamber. The gash on the rat's belly sealed itself, leaving behind only a faint scar. 

He released the rat. It panted, sniffing, eyeing the world as though seeing it anew. A crest blazed on its belly. 

Metodey cackled, lifting the creature, standing atop the table as he spun them both. 

It worked. The dumb beast had a crest. Not much of one. Not one of any worth. But a sliver of a crest nonetheless, manipulated into a being that had no business wielding such power. 

He slowed in his revelry. Why, then, did it not work on him? Why did his attempts to fill himself fail so miserably, leave him empty and aching instead?

Metodey growled, flinging the rat across the room. It struck the wall with a sickening crunch and lay still, its crest dimming as it died.

Metodey crouched atop the table, feeling around for his instruments. It was difficult to see in the small stone chamber, windowless, lit only by a few glowing red stones like evil eyes set into the walls. 

No matter. He required little light for this experiment.

He brought the rust-colored knife to his own arm, digging a gash that ran from wrist to elbow. It hurt. Oh, it hurt. But it also bled, so freely and sweetly, so unabashedly. Metodey groped for a vial, yanking out the stopper with his teeth, pouring blood over the dribble that had appeared on his skin, massaging it in, forcing it in, willing it to fill him. 

But all he felt was the sting of the cut, the empty ache of ordinary pain. 

The door banged open, spilling sickly yellow light into the lovely red gloom. Acheron made a choked squeak, pausing in the doorway with his guards.

“Well,” Acheron said from behind a handkerchief. 

Metodey turned to regard him. 

“Has it worked yet?” Acheron said. 

“No.”

Acheron lowered the handkerchief, embroidered with lilies and violets stitched in delicate, tiny strokes. A sneer waited behind it. He stepped into the room, his heels clacking across the bloodied stone until he came to the table Metodey crouched upon among rusty tools and eviscerated rats. 

Even as the lord of this defiled castle and poisonous land grimaced at Metodey like he was a bad smell lodged in his throat, Metodey saw the gleam of greed in Acheron's eyes. And the lord of this traitorous snippet of Leicester lands was indeed greedy. Metodey knew that well, knew that even if a crest could not fill him, Acheron could. And would. Metodey saw it plainly in those beady blue eyes, so very like a scared rat's. 

Metodey licked his lips, a flick of the tongue as quick as a snake, and Acheron went paler and rosier all at once. 

Metodey smiled. Acheron raised a manicured hand, waving his guards away. They gave little grunts of surprise, perhaps disapproval, and Acheron rounded on them.

“I said, go,” he snapped. 

They bowed and scraped out of the red chamber, closing the door behind them. 

The red gloom was pretty against Acheron's powdered face. It turned his soft blond curls strawberry-colored. It darkened those beady blue eyes, made his pouty lips rosy beneath that foppish curl of mustache he stubbornly and meticulously maintained. 

But best of all was his revulsion, his disgust, the way his lips pressed tight as though holding back vomit. He would fill Metodey, fill him in a way the flames-cursed crest blood refused to, but all the while it would be Metodey taking him apart, dissecting him like one of his rats. This specimen was far more fun to play with, far more resilient. He kept coming back for more, no matter how Metodey defiled him. 

And defile him he would.

He yanked Acheron to his mouth, staining his lips red, biting at them to leave them swollen and pink. 

Acheron shoved him away, making a tight, choking noise, yet his eyes roved up and down the filthy creature sprawled atop the table and still bleeding. 

The lord yanked at Metodey's trousers in a most undignified way, urgent and greedy. Metodey felt the rasp of the wood table under his ass, felt the coolness of the blood soaking into the furniture. Acheron looked nauseated, pale and trembling from the mixture of desire and disgust roiling his stomach. 

Metodey grinned. He held up his arm, not bleeding as much anymore, just a trickle now. He licked the length of the cut, slow and sinuous as he lapped up the detritus of his failed experiment. No crest. Yet again, no crest. But this was nearly as good. 

Acheron stood at the edge of the table, hands planted on either side of Metodey's hips. Metodey's legs dangled off the edge of the table. He considered hooking his feet around Acheron and forcing him closer, but it was better to wait, better to tease it out, to force this powdered lord to reach for a wretched weasel and admit how badly he wanted it. 

Acheron's eyes flicked down to Metodey's cock, straining up against his belly. Metodey saw him swallow, throat bobbing. His squinting eyes crawled back up, chips of azure. 

“Filthy creature,” Acheron groaned. He sneered, he snarled, and yet, when Metodey flicked his tongue out again, licking his own lips, Acheron moaned against the pain of his arousal. “Goddess forgive me.”

“Oh, she won't,” Metodey said. “But I'm the least of your sins, Lord Acheron.” 

Acheron grabbed Metodey by the front of his stained tunic. “Do not speak, wretch.”

Metodey cackled. “Whatever you say, my lord.” 

Acheron hardly let him finish before flipping him over. Metodey lay face down against the table, his legs dangling off, toes barely managing to touch the floor. He felt Acheron rubbing against him, not even pausing to remove his hose in his fervor. His fingers clutched at Metodey's hips, dragging him back to meet each pathetic, whimpering thrust of cloth against skin. 

Metodey's laughter elicited a snarl from Acheron. He paused. Metodey waited against the table, feeling the silence behind him. Then Acheron slapped him, a swift crack against his ass that ricocheted off the barren stone walls. Metodey gasped against the sweet, sharp pain sizzling through him. 

“You find it funny, do you?” Acheron snarled. 

“Most humorous. My lord.” 

Acheron growled low in his throat and Metodey heard the hasty shuffle of clothing. Finally. But what he received was another sharp crack against his ass. Metodey cooed at the decadent spike of pain. 

“Your hands are so delicate, my lord,” Metodey said. “It is like a breeze upon my skin.” 

“A breeze--” Acheron stuttered, rage tangling his tongue. 

Before Metodey could utter another jab, a slick finger entered his ass, replacing his barbs with a yelp. Acheron huffed a laugh of triumph, easing in a second finger. He started pumping at Metodey, coaxing him open. 

But here, again, the flustered lord was just as soft as his powdered hair. He took care with Metodey, worked against the tight muscles, curled his fingers until Metodey was humming with pleasure. 

“My lord,” he rasped, “I do believe you're being far too--”

“Shut up,” Acheron growled. 

For all his snarling, when a third finger nudged inside Metodey, it was cautious and gentle. Flames, would the pathetic little lordling never find his courage? Metodey suspected he wouldn't. Acheron was a coward through and through, that was how Metodey had forced his way into this place, claimed a room for his experiments and, eventually, coaxed these despised desires out of Acheron. The man hated himself far more than he hated Metodey, most likely, but he was too much of a spineless worm to do anything but grunt and whine atop Metodey about it. 

Which is precisely what he finally meant to do, judging from the fact that he'd removed his fingers. Metodey could hear Acheron slicking up his cock and he wiggled his ass in anticipation. 

Acheron made a noise of disgust, but sure enough, Metodey felt his cock rubbing against him, hard and twitching already. Sad little lordling.

“You aren't going to hold up long like that,” Metodey said. “My lord.”

“Merciful Seiros, if you dare to speak even once more--”

Metodey flipped around, suddenly facing Acheron. “Ooh, will you punish me? Is that a promise? You'll need something tougher than those delicate lordling hands of yours.” 

Acheron flushed a deeper red. He grabbed Metodey by the hips, positioning him over his cock. Metodey could tell how Acheron's hand was quivering as he angled his cock against Metodey and started to push inside. Metodey had to cling to the table, his ankles at Acheron's shoulders as his ass hung off the edge. 

Acheron grunted as his cock slid into Metodey; Metodey chuckled. Oh, it felt good, filling him so very sweetly. But the sorry look on Acheron's face, the helpless lust--he looked like he'd hardly last a thrust. 

Metodey chewed at his lip to stifle a cackle. It was too delicious for words. 

Acheron gripped his ass as he started to hike his hips up. Metodey gasped from the sensation of Acheron's cock pushing all the way inside him. His own cock arched at his belly, weeping. Perhaps the desperation was contagious. 

Either way, when Acheron found his rhythm, swaying into Metodey, fingers digging into his hips as he pulled Metodey down into each thrust, Metodey's laughter turned to moans. He tilted his head back and let them bubble out. His ankles bounced against Acheron's shoulders. His hands gripped the table so tightly he thought he might snap the wood. 

A sharp crack.

Metodey gasped, eyes flying wide. His ass stung, but from Acheron's hand rather than his cock. 

“M-my l-l-lord,” Metodey whimpered. “I didn't know … y-you had it … i-in you...”

Acheron grunted. He was leaning so far forward now his head was nearly on Metodey's chest. Metodey grabbed his soft yellow curls, tugging until he looked up. 

“Again.” 

A shadow passed before Acheron's face, sending a thrill through Metodey. He felt another stinging slap against his ass and arched back, crying out at the ceiling, his hand tightening in Acheron's hair. 

“Disgusting … fucking … weasel,” Acheron grit. 

Oh, but he enjoyed pounding that disgusting weasel, now didn't he? Metodey clenched around Acheron and heard the lord choke out a gasp. Acheron shuddered. His hands clamped like vices. Metodey pumped his own cock, eager not to be left behind. 

Acheron got there first, stuttering against Metodey, grunting as he spilled in Metodey's ass. He collapsed forward, slumping onto Metodey's chest. 

Perhaps it was simply bad luck, but that was the precise moment Metodey's own release arrived. Arrived and splattered out onto Acheron's chest and neck. And face. 

Acheron jerked upright. Metodey gaped at him, a hand still on his cock. Acheron used one fluttering hand to tap delicately at the cum on his cheek. He pulled his fingers away as though frightened by what he might see. 

Then his tongue flicked out, licking his fingertip clean.

Metodey blinked. So did Acheron. He seemed dazed by his own actions. He pulled away hastily, abandoning care and caution as he got his cock out of Metodey and stumbled back. Acheron looked around for something to clean himself off with, but most surfaces in the horrid room were stained with blood and rat carcasses. Finally, he grabbed Metodey's discarded clothing, cleaning himself off with his pants before tossing them back on the filthy floor.

Acheron fumbled with his hose, standing up prim and proper, dusting himself off as though it could brush away the defilement of this place and the things they did within it. 

“B-back to your work,” Acheron said. “I expect results. You can't stay here for free.” 

A grin coiled Metodey's mouth. “Whatever you like. My lord.”

**Author's Note:**

> I will never be forgiven. 
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/purplebookcover) (18+ please).
> 
> I respond to every comment. Thank you, friends!


End file.
